


like penguins (if penguins exist in thedas)

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: The Meraad Chronicles [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Banter, Caring, Cold, Cold Weather, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Magic, Mercenaries, Orlais, POV Third Person, Platonic Affection, Platonic Cuddling, Short & Sweet, Winter, brynn is secretly ben-hassrath, graphic description of being irritated at the cold, neither meraad nor turaz enjoy the cold, orlesian bashing, use of magic to keep you warm, val firmin, winter in southern thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 11:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: You know that thing when you're miserably cold and you have someone to snuggle to warm you up? And it's the best thing in the world because you're not lonely and less cold? This fic is that. It's two miserably cold qunari in the ass-end of southern Orlais in the middle of winter, snuggling for warmth.





	like penguins (if penguins exist in thedas)

**Author's Note:**

> as always the 'X character is secretly ben-hassrath' tag is just there for comedic effect. i should mention this fact more often to avoid confusion. anyways. enjoy! here's to the fanfic bits where Meraad and Turaz are happy and affectionate. i love one (1) sad video game dad and his fierce mage daughter.
> 
> maybe the next upload will be angst? :3c

“So you two come as a package deal. You share a tent, then?”

Meraad gives Turaz a look to check, and she nods.

“Yeah, we can share.”

The human, Brynn, nods as well, once. “Good. Don’t rip the tent with your horns, or you’ll have to patch it up yourself. We’re leaving in two days, don’t be late.”

 

Two days later the company moves out southwards, away from Val Firmin. The bandits are somewhere in the hills, a good bit away, so the company piles into carts and wagons of the mercenary caravan. As journeys go, it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either. Meraad sits in one of the wagons and wishes he was walking, to chase off the cold. It’s the cutting mid-winter kind that makes his joints feel stiff when he doesn’t keep moving. He’s going to buy better gloves with the money from this job.

In the middle of the hills, with the Gamordan Peaks rising in the distance, they set up camp. And then they’re trekking out, across the fields. The chief of the company, an illegally chipper city elf, insists on leading the way. And the mercs follow. It’s nice for an hour or two, all clear skies and crunchy snow underfoot. The sun does a piss-poor job of warming anything, but the march keeps them moving, so it’s manageable on foot. Gets tiring after a while, but there’s worse than walking.

It gets dark so soon this time of year, Wintersend still far away, so they spend all the daylight hours out looking for the bandit fucks. But nothing to go on east of the camp, and they all pile back together, sit thigh to thigh around the campfires. Not cooking-fires, no sense on a trip this short, but if there hadn’t been fires the mercs might’ve all quit and headed back into town. Only a handful of the assembled fuckers seem to thrive in the weather. The kid isn’t one of them, not under these circumstances. Usually she burns mana to keep herself warm, but these people can’t be trusted not to snitch to the local Templars. So she’s on his right, shivering a little and warming herself on the fire. Brynn, the second-in-command, is on his left, looking vaguely miserable.

The night closes in. No clouds have drawn together, so they sit under a myriad of stars that leech the heat right off the embers. It’s chilling to the bone. There’s not even a lot of banter. Everyone, mostly humans and a handful of elves, seems more concerned with not dying of cold than with chatting to pass the time. Breath hangs in front of Meraad’s nose like clouds and he wishes he was elsewhere.

It pleases the nobility to have the bandits gone, so off you go, have fun, for as little money as we can get away with paying you. Posh masked fuckers. Meraad thinks of the prick who hired them, probably reclining on silk pillows near a roaring fireplace right now, and wishes him frostbite. He can stand the cold, it’s not going to kill him or stop him from fighting, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it with every fibre of his being. He’d take the Northern summer sun over this any day.

“Meraad,” says Turaz, in quiet Qunlat. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“You and me both.” She’s been pissy and miserable all day about the no magic thing. Not that he can blame her.

“Think I can use a glyph in the tent?”

“Dunno. They might see. Got an idea though.”

She looks hopeful, and Meraad tips his head towards the tent.

“We’re gonna hit the hay,” he tells the rest of the company in Trade. “Let’s find the bastards tomorrow so we can get back to nice inns and warm rooms, huh?”

A muted murmur of agreement sounds as they get to the tent they’re meant to share. It’s fucking freezing when Meraad crawls inside. Turaz follows; when he lights the lantern so he can actually see, she looks grumpy .

“So, what’s the idea?” She ties down the tent entrance and watches Meraad get out the bedrolls.

“Well, I dunno if the tent’s enough to hide how your glyphs glow. But the thing you do to warm your hands?” He puts the bedroll over his shoulders, spreads his arms like an invite. “I like to think I afford good cover.”

Turaz sits down in front of him, drapes the other bedroll around herself. She raises her hands and little flames lick around her palms, up her fingers. It’s still freaky and unsettling to watch the magic just _work_ , but he’s got his fight-or-flight reaction in a solid fucking grip by now. There’s a relief on her face that’s a delight to watch, and it’s more than worth it. He gives her few long breaths to enjoy the warmth. Then it’s time to lighten her spirits with some choice banter.

“Fucking Orlesian pricks,” he says, with quiet humour. “Wanna bet the guy who hired us is having some servant bringing him hot spiced wine right fucking now?”

The kid snorts a laugh. There’s a wisp of smoke on her breath as she’s warming up all of her, not just the hands.

“Yeah, probably. Getting his dick sucked in front of a fireplace.”

The warmth from her wells against him like a touch.

“I hope he gets frostbite on his defransdim,” Meraad suggests and she sighs empathetically.

“Fuck, yes. If we don’t find the bandits tomorrow, I’m going back to Val Firmin and pissing on his rose-bushes.”

“It’ll freeze before it hits the plant,” he deadpans, and it makes Turaz giggle so much the flames gutter out.

“I don’t want to believe that that’s a thing that can happen.”

“I watched a guy get hit by cold magic while taking a piss once. Trust me, kid, I wish I could believe that’s not a thing.”

She snorts again and leans in closer, bonks her head against his shoulder. She’s toasty warm now and smells just a bit like woodsmoke. Much better than a freezing, miserable Turaz. The cold can’t be so bad when you can keep yourself snug, and he imagines being denied that would make him pissy as well if he could do it in the first place.

“You wanna go to sleep?”

“Mmm.” She tugs the bedroll off her shoulders. “Yeah. I wish I could do a glyph, we might yet freeze to death.”

Meraad puts his bedroll down, open, and lies back. “Not if we share. C’mere, kid. I got no funky magic, but I’ll do my best to keep you warm.”

She covers them with her own bedroll, tucks herself against his side, head on his arm.

“You better. If I wake up and we’ve frozen to death, I’ll set your horns on fire.” It’s good to hear the smile in her voice, to have the kid all safe and relaxed.

“Well, at least one part of me will be warm,” he shrugs, and there’s smoke on her breath when she laughs, and he’s safe too.


End file.
